Catspaw
by Epona Harper
Summary: Undead mob bosses, snakes and transformations. Oh MY! ;)
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own the Real Ghostbusters or any of the characters you recognize from the show. No profit was made from this fic other than some minor ego gratification. Good luck trying to sue me for that. :)

* * *

In many human structures, form follows function. Living and working spaces are designed to bring together things that need to be together and keep separate things that shouldn't be. This phenomenon takes many forms: interior design, office flow, feng shui, but they all share the same goal of making people comfortable with life and work or make them more profitable or both.

However, the requirements of keeping human remains safe and out-of-sight of the general public seem to override worker comfort in pathology, hence the unwritten rule that hospital morgues must be located in hospital sub-basements.

Jeremy Markam didn't care much about that. A pathologist with twelve years experience, he was used to spending the days without seeing the sun. In his opinion, his job was the best in the medical field. The pace was usually sedate except for the occasional rush job from the police who needed the evidence filed PRONTO, and his patients never backtalked him.

"Well, Ted, back to the salt mines," he cheerfully said to his assistant as he snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and walked over to his latest project on the autopsy table. Pulling back the sheet, he gave the corpse a quick but thorough look over. He then stepped on the recorder's foot pedal. Almost absently, he rattled off the date and his identification.

"Subject is a Caucasian male, forty-five to fifty years old," he continued as Ted took photographs of the body from head to toe. "Identified by police as David Maniscalco. Fingerprints have been taken for confirmation."

Ted had finished with his photography, and Dr. Markam paused in his dictation to help him remove the body's clothing (which in this case, was only an elaborate, embroidered robe of green silk) and place it in an evidence bag. As his assistant started taking a second set of photographs of the now nude corpse, the pathologist returned to the microphone. "Visual inspection shows three bullet entry wounds in the left anterior chest. Entry wound number one is located at the level of the third rib, approximately one centimeter medial to the mid-clavicular line..."

With practiced ease, the pathology team examined, noted and recorded every external aspect of the body; a tattoo of a snake around the right wrist, a missing nail on his toe, several scars from past fights including two recently-healed puncture wounds on his left shoulder. Cause of death was obvious. All three shots had been placed to take out the heart, but this was an autopsy in a criminal investigation. Therefore no stone could be left unturned.

"Think we'll be able to get this wrapped up in time for lunch, Doc?" Ted asked as Markam paused the recorder and picked up a scalpel. "I hear the cafeteria's having chicken Caesar salad today."

"I'll do my best," Markam said with a smirk. "Far be it from me to miss the only food that the cafeteria is actually capable of making correctly."

Focused on opening the chest cavity, neither man noticed a dark form stirring in the shadows of the room. Slowly, silently, it slid across the floor to the table.

"There, we go. If you'll hand me the rib cutter, please."

The tool crunched its way though bone until the sternum and front halves of the ribs could be lifted free, exposing the heart and lungs. Markam reached in and gently lifted the heart to examine it.

"There is rupture of the left ventricle, the aortic arch just proximal to the brachiocephalic artery and..."

"Holy shit!"

Markam looked up sharply, startled by Ted's uncharacteristic outburst. The man was backing away, whites showing all around his eyes. "Doc! Get back!" he shouted, his gaze fixed on the table. The pathologist looked down just in time to catch a glimpse of something dark zipping into the corpse's open chest. He didn't get a good look at it, but suddenly, it felt like his hands had been plunged into ice water. He dropped the ravaged organ and took a step back. Time itself seemed to hold its breath as the exposed heart jumped, then jumped again. To the pathologist's amazement and growing horror, it began to beat again. The chest heaved and a long low groan came from the deceased lips. Dr. Markam glanced up at the face just in time to see the sunken eyes snap open. The dead man's hypnotic gaze held him frozen in fascination, oblivious to Ted's screams of terror and warning.

"It's good to be back," the creature that had once been David Maniscalco rasped as he sat up, the ruptured wall of his heart flapping obscenely with every beat. He reached out and gently took the pathologist's head between his hands. "Yes, it's very good to be back," he repeated with a cold smile and snapped the doctor's neck.

* * *

"Trap out!"

A fan of white light, one last ear-shattering wail and the Ghostbusters secured the last of the five spirits haunting an old house which was slated for demolition. Winston Zeddemore wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Is that all of them?" he asked.

"Game, set and match," Ray Stantz answered with satisfaction as he holstered his thrower. "That was fun!"

"Remind me to discuss your definition of 'fun', Ray," Peter Venkman said sourly from his position across the room. "Getting up at seven in the morning to chase class fives around a firetrap is definitely not fun. Have I mentioned how much I hate haunted houses?"

"Indeed, you have, Dr. Venkman," Egon Spengler answered dryly as he looked up from making one final check on his meter. "So many times and in such great detail that I'm sure we can describe the depth of your ire from memory."

Peter shot the physicist a wry grin. "Well, far be it from me to beat a dead horse..."

"Since when?" Winston asked just loud enough to be heard, triggering a laugh from Ray as he picked up the smoking trap. Peter ignored him pointedly and turned to leave.

"If you guys are ready, let's go pick up our check and let those construction workers get back to knocking down this dump to make way for the latest in mini-malls."

The four men trooped out to their car, making a short stop to pick up their pay, and started loading their equipment to the accompaniment of good natured insults and their usual one-upmanship contest. However, the horseplay was soon broken off by the ring of Ecto-1's cell phone. Ray answered it with glee.

"Ghostbuster's mobile. Hey, Janine, what's up?" The others gathered around to wait as the engineer listened with an occasional nod and "uh-huh". "Tell them we'll be right over. See you later. Let's go, guys!" he said as he hung up the phone. "We've got an emergency call over at St. Vincent's hospital."

* * *

"You know," Peter said as he propped his feet up on the conference room table, "for people who wanted emergency service, they sure are keeping us waiting a long time."

Winston nodded in agreement. The second the Ghostbusters had shown up at the hospital, they had been spirited away to a physician's conference room with assurances that someone would be there to brief them soon. They had now been waiting nearly twenty minutes and every minute made the former soldier more edgy. "Did you notice all the police cars parked outside? Something screwy's going on here."

"Whatever is going on here, it has caused a significant disturbance in the local psychokinetic energy levels," Egon added. The physicist had been taking readings from the moment they entered the building. "I'm picking up the signatures of at least four class-twos and possibly a three."

"This hospital's not had any incidents of haunting before, Egon," Ray said, frowning down at the woodgrain pattern of the table. He reached out and absently traced a line. "Wonder what stirred them up."

The doorknob rattled and the four men looked up eagerly. It opened to reveal Dr. Boggan, the frazzled hospital administrator who had brought them here. "I am so sorry about the wait, gentlemen," he apologized as he entered. "But I believe we can now get started."

"And the sooner the better," growled a low voice behind him. Peter's eyes widened as he recognized it.

"Frump?"

The burly police inspector pushed his way past Dr. Boggan and tossed a several files and a videotape onto the table. "In the flesh," he said, sweeping the room with his irritated glare. It finally came to rest on Peter who leaned a little further back in his chair with a smug look, pointedly not removing his feet from the table. Egon sighed and moved to take control of the conversation before the snipe-fest could get started.

"May I ask why you are present at this meeting, Inspector Frump?" he asked, discreetly kicking Peter's chair. His friend shot him an irritated glance and went back to trading glares with the detective. "This is, after all, supposed to be our briefing for de-haunting this hospital."

"Well," Dr. Boggan started to explain, nervously adjusting his tie and sitting down. "You see, the hospital will not be your sole employer in this...venture, so I felt that a representative of both parties should be present before we began."

All the Ghostbusters sat up a little straighter and Peter dropped his feet to the floor with a thump as the implications sank in. "Let me get this straight," he said with a gamin grin spreading across his face. "_You _want to hire _us_, Frump? You're hiring the Ghostbusters? The quacks and frauds you've been itching to throw in the slammer?"

"Yes, Venkman," Frump snarled. "Though it's not me personally, but the department ordered me to call you in. And don't rub it in, or I will throw you in the tank for obstruction of justice."

"Whoa, guys!" Winston broke in, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "Just what's going on here? Is this a haunting or a criminal investigation?"

"If you'll just let me explain, you'll see it's a little of both," Dr. Boggan said with a fair amount of irritation in his voice. Peter started to say something, but was cut off by Ray kicking his shin from under the table. He rolled his eyes at the engineer and subsided. Now that he had obtained the floor, Dr. Boggan folded his hands on the tabletop and began.

"Yesterday, around 11:45 a.m., Dr. Jeremy Markam and his assistant Ted Hammons were performing a scheduled autopsy. One of our janitors heard a disturbance coming from the morgue. When he went to investigate, he encountered a strange man dressed in surgical scrubs and a white coat. The stranger did not stop when he was asked what was going on, and, when the janitor grabbed his arm, he found himself thrown against the wall hard enough to knock him unconscious for a moment. When he came to, he called security."

The administrator broke off and glanced at Frump who got a sour twist to his mouth as he opened one of his files.

"When security got there, this is what they found in the morgue."

He handed two photographs to Venkman who was closest. The psychologist looked down at the image and blanched. Two men, rather obviously dead, one of whom was stripped naked. "Oh, shit," he murmured as he passed them on to the others. Frump smirked at his reaction.

"Good summary, Dr. Venkman," he drawled.

"I call it like I see it," Peter shot back. He traded looks with his partners, grim ones with Winston and Egon and a sympathetic one for Ray who was looking a bit green around the gills. "But I don't see why you're calling us for this. We're not in the Crimebuster business anymore."

"For which I thank God every night," the detective said piously. "Well, there is a little more to it. First, the body they were cutting on was missing when security arrived. Second, each exit out of the morgue area is monitored by security cameras." He picked up the videotape and stomped over to the VCR in the corner of the room. "We got ourselves a good ID on the perp."

The T.V. switched on to a black and white image of a hospital corridor. After a moment, a white- coated figure came running up. Frump paused the tape. "There's our perp. Wearing Doc Markam's threads."

"Okay, who is he?" Winston asked. He already had a sinking suspicion he knew but wanted confirmation. Frump opened another file and tossed some more papers to the Ghostbusters. A mugshot and several pages of a case file. The man in the mugshot was identical to the man on the tape.

"Meet David Maniscalco," Frump said flippantly. "A.K.A. Pit Viper. Former mobster and the stiff the pathologist was working on when everything went to shit."

The four men glanced from the photo to the T.V. and back again. Finally, Egon cleared his throat. "Am I right in assuming that you believe your murderer is a dead man? And not in the figurative sense?"

"Yes, you're right in _assuming_ that," Frump said nastily. "Forensics has been over that place with everything but an electron microscope. As far as they can tell, the only people back there were the doc, his flunky and the corpse. And the only one who walked out was some slime that by all rights should be worm food."

"And this Maniscalco doesn't have a twin?" Ray asked.

"For that matter, are you sure he was dead in the first place?" Winston added.

"No, he doesn't have an Evil Twin Skippy," Frump answered with another glare. "And we're pretty damn sure he was dead. I was there when we busted his operation two days ago. Had to take the perp down myself when he started getting frisky with an Uzi. Three large caliber holes right in his chest."

"And the recording we have of the autopsy to the point of the...incident backs this up," Dr. Boggan confirmed.

Peter leaned back in his chair, giving both the doctor and the detective a measuring look. "Okay, what else is there?" he asked. "I know you wouldn't call us in just on this evidence, Frump. Not this soon, anyway. I'd think you'd give CSI at least a couple weeks to come up with an explanation before calling in the spook squad."

Frump's lips pressed together in a thin line as he glowered at Venkman. Dr. Boggan sighed and attempted to take up the thread of the conversation again. "Well, ever since the incident, there have been...well I'll just come out and say it. We've been haunted. The ghosts are staying mostly in the sub-basement area but we are very concerned that they do not get into the patient areas."

"Uh-huh. That's why _you_ want us here, doc," Peter said, his eyes never moving from Frump's thundercloud visage. "But you're not the only one hiring us. Come on, Frump. Spill it."

"Indeed," Egon agreed. "If you have any other information that touches on the supernatural aspects of this case, it is imperative that you share it with us."

All in all, Frump looked like he'd rather have a root canal without novocaine, but finally he looked away. "Okay, you clowns. It's something that happened when we busted Maniscalco," he said reluctantly. "We knew the sleeze was into cult stuff and witchcraft. When we stormed the place, he was in the middle of some kind of seance or something. Looked like one of John Carpenter's wet dreams with all the smoke and candles and this weird-ass altar deal. The whole time he was shooting at my men, he kept jabbering in some language that no one on my team could understand." Peter's sharp eyes barely caught the detective's suppressed shudder. "And all that smoke kept collecting over his head while he kept hollerin', like it was trying to turn into something nasty. It broke up the minute I put a slug in him." He glared impartially at all four Ghostbusters, defying them to make a crack. Peter opened his mouth to oblige, but quickly shut it again as this time Egon kicked his shin under the table.

"Wow!" Ray breathed, leaning forward on his elbows. "Did you keep the stuff he was using together? We might be able to piece together what he was doing when you got him."

"Sure. The lab boys can take you through the place," Frump answered. "Listen, I don't like you guys, but my instincts tell me that we've got some serious shit going on here. And you don't stay alive in this business long without listening to your instincts. So the hospital's hiring you to bust the ghosts in here, then you're on retainer with the police to help us figure if it was a dead man that killed those guys and, if so, how. You got a problem with that?"

"No problem at all," Peter said, looking like the cat who'd gotten the cream. "Now, let's discuss this retainer."

* * *

"Yeeesh!" Peter said with a shudder as he looked around. The techs from the crime lab had cleared out, leaving outlines of the murder victims on the floor. "Morgues creep me out. Remind me again why we're doing this."

Winston grinned as he rested his proton thrower against his shoulder. "Glory, the safety of humanity and a steady paycheck. What else?"

"And the ladies, Zed," Peter said, bumping Winston with his shoulder. "Don't forget the ladies."

"If you are through, gentlemen," Egon said, as he panned his meter over the room. "Can we get down to business?"

"Aye, aye, Captain," Peter said with an insolent salute. "What have we got?"

"Residuals," Egon answered. "Powerful residuals."

"That's what I'm getting, too," Ray confirmed from the other side of the room. "At least Class seven."

"So it's not our not-so-dearly-departed gangster back for a visit?" Winston asked. "What then? Something he was summoning when the police capped him?"

"A distinct possibility," Egon confirmed. "As soon as we finish with the ghosts in this facility, it is imperative that we investigate the scene of the ritual."

Ray nodded in agreement as he put his meter back in his pocket and drew his thrower. "I need to make some phone calls. Maybe my contacts in the psychic community have heard something about what he was into."

"Okay, then. Let's bust some ghosts," Winston said, ready to get into action. "What do you guys think? It'd be faster if we split up, but is there any chance of that Seven coming back?"

"If the Seven walked out of here in Maniscalco's body, I don't think he's to eager to come back here where he'd be recognized," Ray said, shaking his head. "And we need to get this wrapped up A.S.A.P. The residuals at the other site are fading as we speak, if they're not completely gone already. "

"Groups of two, then," Peter said. "Keep an eye on the readings and yell if you get a spike."

"Good idea," Winston said as he started to lead the way out of the morgue. "Egon and I will take care of this area. You and Ray start at the other end."

Peter tossed his head in the direction of the hall. "All right, Tex. Let's get moving. And everyone be careful with your shots. As often as we get hurt, we do not want a hospital mad at us for neutronizing their MRI or something."

"Really, Peter," Ray said cheerfully. "They know about the damage clause in the contract. They can't hold it against us."

Peter rolled his eyes and fell into step beside the engineer. "Ray, Ray, Ray. You never, _ever_ want to take a chance on getting someone who is in a position to use sharp objects pissed off at you."

* * *

Half an hour later, both Ray and Peter was getting quite irritated at their slow progress. Class Two's were relatively weak ghosts, but these were quick and agile, and they were further hampered by the cramped conditions of the basement. Out of the five ghosts they had finally been able to register, they had caught only one and this little intruder they had discovered in the medical records department was proving to be as difficult as the first.

"Man! Whatever happened here really stirred them up!" Ray said as the wispy entity evaded his beam once again.

"You said it, Tex. I hope Spengs and Zed are having an easier time of it on their end or we'll be here all afternoon." Peter cut off his beam and slid around the corner of a file cabinet. "See if you can herd him toward the message tubes."

"Sure thing!"

Ray adjusted his thrower to a slightly wider stream and fired several short bursts at the ghost, driving it into Peter's waiting ambush. The white-yellow beam snaked out, pinning the ghost in place. "Got him! Where's that trap?"

"Coming right up," Ray called back, suiting action to words. In a few seconds the spirit was contained. "Whew! That wasn't so easy."

"Tell me about it," Peter said as he wove his way through the file cabinets and desks. "Okay, where's our next one?"

Ray leaned against a nearby cabinet as he consulted his meter. "We've only go two left...make that one. I guess the others just trapped it." He looked up and pointed at the far wall. "And it looks like it's right out there in the hall."

"Peachy," Peter said as he scanned the room. "Let's try to get it in a pincer move so we don't have a repeat of our last performance. You take the main door. If I remember the layout right, the side door will take me to a hall that connects with the one you'll be going into."

"Okay, Peter," Ray said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's get going."

The two men split up. Ray paused at the door to take another reading and listen for movement. Then he cautiously opened the door and slipped through into the hall. He could just see the Class Two, a pale yellow, amorphous blob drifting a little ways away. He crouched by the wall and waited for Peter to appear at the end of the t-junction. It was so quiet that the sudden urgent beeping of his PKE meter nearly made him jump out of his skin. "What the...oh darn!" he snapped as the little ghost took off through the ceiling like it was trying to attain escape velocity. He pulled out his meter and looked over the readings with growing alarm. He jerked his radio off his belt. "Peter! I'm getting a PKE spike. Pull back and circle around to..."

A scream echoed down the hall. Ray felt the blood drain out of his face and broke into a sprint, thrower at the ready. "Winston! Egon!" He shouted into his radio. "We need back up in medical records!" He barreled around the corner in time to see the last glimpse of something dark disappear around a shadowed corner. Peter crumpled motionless on the floor. "Oh, God, no!" Ray breathed as he dropped to his knees. "Please be okay, Peter. Please?" He felt for a pulse at the older man's neck and sighed in relief to find it strong and steady.

"Raymond!"

Ray's head jerked around to see Egon and Winston pounding around the corner. They skidded to a stop and Egon dropped to his knees to check his teammates while Winston remained on guard. "Ray, what happened?"

"We were trying to outflank the last ghost," Ray answered. "Just as we were getting into position the meter went off and I heard Peter scream." He nodded toward the end of the corridor. "I...I didn't see what happened, but whatever did it went that way."

Egon pointed his meter in that direction. "Nothing there now. Only residuals, at least Class Five. I detected the spike as well, but whatever it is appears to have made a rapid exit."

"We have to make sure about that," Winston said, keeping his eyes on the hall.

A low groan quickly turned their attention back to their friend. "Peter?" Ray asked hopefully. "Are you okay?"

"Do I _look_ okay?" came the muffled reply. "What hit me?"

"We were hoping you could provide us with that information, Dr. Venkman," Egon quipped, some of the tension draining from his face.

"Smart ass," Peter said as he started to roll over on his back. "I've got half a mind to...urgh!"

"What's wrong?" Egon asked anxiously as he and Ray reached out to steady their friend. Peter took a few gasping breaths before continuing.

"It's a good thing we didn't blast anything important, guys," he said through gritted teeth and he rolled the rest of the way over. "'Cause I really don't need the doctors to be pissed off at me."

The front of his uniform had been shredded and blood was soaking into the dark, brown fabric. Winston bit off a curse. "Ray, you stand guard. Egon, get to the phone down the hall and get a gurney down here stat." He ripped the remaining cloth away, exposing three, parallel slashes stretching from Peter's shoulder to just short of his breastbone. Winston pulled the first aid kit off his belt and ripped into the gauze package to try to slow the bleeding. "Damn, Pete. Whatever it was went through your pack's strap like a hot knife through butter. You're lucky it just grazed you."

"Yeah, Zed," Peter replied, sarcasm thick in his voice despite the pain. "I feel really lucky right now. Maybe I should try the lottery on the way home."

* * *

Peter blew irritably at the paper sheet that covered part of his face. Overall, he was glad it was there. It gave him an excuse not to watch the process of having his chest sewn up. The three cuts were fairly deep and their length had caused the E.R. attending to call over not only a resident but also two medical students to do the suturing. Having three people leaning over him with instruments made him feel rather like a race car in the pit.

"You hanging in there, m'man?"

Peter turned his head to the right where Winston had ensconced himself beside one of the students. "No sweat, Zed," he said, pointedly ignoring the tugs of the needles as they poked their thankfully painless way through his skin. "Well, maybe the wrong choice of words. I'm baking here under this light."

Winston chuckled and reached out with a fist to gently tap Peter's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, if you'd gone for the staples, they would have been done in half the time."

"No way, Winston," Peter replied. "Even without a bunch of metal in my skin, carrying a pack is..."

"Is something you're not doing for a while. We discussed this..."

"No. You, Ray and Spengs discussed it. Come on, I can pad the pack strap if I have to."

Winston rolled his eyes. After they'd determined that the site of the attack was clear, and Peter had been taken to the emergency department, it had been decided that Egon and Ray would go on with the police to investigate the site where Maniscalco had been killed. Winston was staying with Peter until he got patched up, then he was going to take him home in Ecto-1. Peter had been okay with that bit but vehemently protested the idea of going on inactive status for the next few days.

"Be reasonable, Pete. You've got a chunk taken out of you. If you rip those stitches by putting on a pack too soon, you're gonna be twice as long getting back in action."

Peter wasn't convinced. "But...ouch!"

"Sorry, Dr. Venkman." The resident pulled the sheet away from Peter's face for a moment. "I take it you felt that."

"Yeah, a little," the psychologist confirmed, wincing.

"Anesthetic must be wearing off. I can give you more lidocaine if you want, but we've only got this last suture..."

"Oh, just get it over with," he growled, digging his fingers into the gurney's mattress. "Damn stuff's like battery acid anyway."

"We'll be quick."

Winston reached under the sheet to grab Peter's hand and gripped it tightly as the last stitch was completed. Peter sighed in relief as they pulled the paper away and started to bandage his shoulder.

"The nurse will be over in a bit to give you the paperwork," the young man said as he made a notation in the chart. "Then you're free to go. But listen to your friend and take it easy for a few days. I know you don't want to have to go through this again."

"We'll keep him in line, doctor," Winston said reassuringly, earning himself a dark look from Peter. "We need to get him back here to have the stitches out in a week, right?"

"You're not my mother, Zed," Peter grumbled as he pulled the remains of his jumpsuit up around his shoulder. The physician grinned.

"We can do it or you can just go to your regular doctor. Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope I don't see you back here any time soon."

Peter managed a wry smile. "That makes two of us." As the resident collected his students and went on to their next patient, Winston helped him sit up on the table. "Sure you don't wanna run by the crime scene and see how the Dynamic Duo are doing?"

"Stop trying to weasel out of this," the former soldier warned. "Besides, the way traffic is at this hour, they'll probably beat us home."

"Good point. Oh, well. I'd say a ghost hunt which ends with me being used as a scratching post is more than enough work for today."

Winston chuckled. "I hear you, m'man. Are you sure you don't remember what tagged you?"

"For the fifth time, Zed," Peter said with a long-suffering sigh. "I don't remember a thing. One minute I'm stalking a Class Two. Next thing I know, I'm on the floor making like the proverbial stuck pig. I wish I could remember what it looked like so I could track the bastard down."

"Okay, okay." Winston raised his hands defensively. "I just wish we had some idea what it was. Kinda makes me jumpy when one of my partners gets himself sliced by something so quick that Egon and Ray can't get a clear reading on it before it makes its exit."

"Doesn't exactly thrill me either, Zed," Peter agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. He nodded toward a nurse who was walking up to his bed. "What do you say we blow this pop stand and see what the geniuses have figured out?"

* * *

Winston's prediction proved to be annoyingly accurate. Not only did they hit rush hour in the teeth, but a four-car pile up delayed them to the point that Egon and Ray did make it back to headquarters first and were pouring over PKE readings and ancient texts in the lab.

"Well, they haven't blown up the lab yet," Peter quipped as he and Winston entered the room. Ray looked up from his book and practically bounced over to them.

"Are you doing okay, Peter? What kept you, guys? Do you have any idea what we found?"

Peter smirked and dropped down on the lab's couch, wincing a little as his usual slouch sent a twinge of pain through his injured shoulder. "Fine, traffic and sure I do. I knew you guys would track down the Holy Grail sooner or later. I'll get us tickets on tomorrow's red-eye to Alexandreta."

"But your leather jacket and fedora won't be back from the cleaners 'til Thursday, Indy'," Winston grinned as he propped himself up against a countertop.

"Good point, Zed. We'll go Friday and spend the weekend dodging Nazis."

"If you gentlemen are quite finished," Egon's dry voice rumbled from across the room. His sharp, blue eyes raked over Peter in a measuring gaze and took on an amused glint as the psychologist responded by sticking his tongue out at him. "I presume you would like a report on our findings at the site of Maniscalco's demise."

"Okay, Egon," Winston replied. "What's the scoop?"

"It's really wild, Winston!" Ray gushed, moving back to the piles of books. "The readings we got there, even three days out, were incredible. And you wouldn't believe the set-up he had." He handed a large photograph to Winston who frowned at the image of the elaborate magical workroom it showed. "It definitely looks like that guy was in the middle of some kind of summoning when they broke in."

"Any idea what got loose?" Peter asked, turning to prop one leg up on the couch. "I take it you think it's the same nasty that took his body for a joyride."

"That is correct, Peter," Egon confirmed, picking up his meter. "The signals found at the hospital are a close match. However, we have not made much progress as to identifying the entity."

Ray carefully picked up a dusty scroll. "About half the books Mansicalco had, neither of us have seen before. We're going through the ones that we have copies of to see what we can find, but I have a feeling the pay dirt is in the other ones. But the red tape for the cops to let us borrow them won't be worked out until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"And deciphering them will take a significant amount of time as well," Egon added, turning back to the book he'd been reading earlier. "Our initial survey showed many of them to be written in obscure dialects."

"So we get to spend the evening reading through this stack you've got here to rule them out," Winston asked, picking up a book of his own. "Anything in particular we should be looking for?"

"Anything having to do with necromancy," Ray answered. "Oh, and you might want to make note of anything having to do with snakes. One thing we noticed about Maniscalco's place was that he really had a thing for snakes. He had them everywhere."

"Wonderful," Peter said sarcastically. "An undead herpetophile. I knew I should have asked for a higher retainer."

As it turned out, nothing in the books the Ghostbusters already had access to shed significant light on their case. Ray wanted to go online to check some of his contacts through email, but Winston vetoed that suggestion. He reminded Ray that, in addition to this new job, the Ghostbusters already had two small 'busts planned for tomorrow and they shouldn't start shorting themselves on sleep since they were only going to have three throwers in play. This, of course, prompted a reprise of Peter's argument that his shoulder could handle a pack just fine, thank you very much. It was just after midnight when Egon finally argued him into reluctant submission. The psychologist finally headed for bed and drifted off to sleep plotting ways to get around his friends and get back into action in case they needed him.

* * *

"_Hunterrrrrrr."_

Peter spun around to face the voice. He was back in the sub-basement hall of the hospital. However, this time it was much, much darker than he remembered. Shadows crept along the walls with an eldritch life.

"Okay, spooky," he challenged, brandishing his proton thrower. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

The shadows chuckled, a soft yet sharp sound like the whisper of a razor cutting through skin. _"Ahhh, such spirit. We are indeed well matched." _There was movement within one patch of shadow....or did the shadow itself move? Peter squinted, trying to make out whatever it was that was talking to him.

"Okay, Mysterio. Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" He blinked in surprise as a thought occurred to him. "For that matter, what the hell am I doing back here?"

The shadows laughed again_. "You have no need of my name yet, cub. Go lick your wounds in your den. You'll be ready for the hunt soon enough."_

"Jeeze, that's not very polite," Peter said, throwing bravado up as a shield as he tried to find a target, any target. "Remind me to get you a copy of Miss Manners."

"_Human etiquette means little to the universe," _the voice growled in scorn. _"And even less to me. Now go before you begin to annoy me." _Too quick to see, the shadows gathered themselves and lashed out at Peter. He snapped out of the nightmare and panted quietly in the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed. Already, the memory of the dream was running out of his mind like water, leaving him with a vague uneasiness and a growing awareness of the pain in his shoulder.

* * *

"Yo, Monty! You got the package?"

The grizzled man in a worn Lakers jacket looked up from unlocking his car and frowned at the younger punk approaching him through the late night shadows of the parking garage. "You're late, Carlos. I was just about to take my package to another customer."

Carlos swaggered up to the battered sedan with a smug grin. "Sorry about that, amigo. Had some cops shadowing me and had to make like a fine, upstanding citizen until they went into donut withdrawal." He sat on the hood of the car and made a beckoning motion with his hands. "Come on, let's see this product you managed to lift when el jefe bought it."

Monty glared at the dealer. A small timer, one he hadn't dealt with in years since he started moving up the ranks in the organization. This kind of nickel-bag scum wouldn't have dared been so smug with him less than a week ago. It stung...but he needed the money to blow town before either the cops or his boss's old enemies caught up with him. "Here you go," he said, pulling the bag out of his pocket after a quick glance around to make sure they were unobserved. Young or not, Carlos knew the etiquette for a deal. He took the bag of powder quickly and made sure to shield the sight of it with his body, just in case, as he took a tiny sample on his finger and tasted it.

"This is pretty good shit, amigo," Carlos allowed. "Maybe el jefe's friends in Columbia will be interested in taking us on as distributors. I'll take it off your hands for two G's."

"Don't be insulting," Monty snarled, letting his hand slide near the pocket where he kept his piece. "That's half a kilo of uncut cocaine. It's worth way more than two grand."

"Yeah, but it's a buyer's market right now," the punk countered. "If you want a fast turn over, you take what I've got or try to find some other feeb who will touch you as hot as you are."

"You are making quite free with my property, Monty."

No more than a whisper, but the voice seemed to cut straight through the two men. In an instant, they both had their pieces out, looking for the intruder. "I thought you said you weren't tailed, wise- ass," Monty snarled.

"I wasn't. If this is a set-up, I'm gonna blow your shitty-ass off!"

"Ahhhh, gentlemen. I've been here for some time." The low chuckle echoed through the structure and the two criminals slowly rotated, guns at the ready, looking for any sign. "In fact, if I'd been a snake, I could have bitten you."

Carlos felt a faint breeze on his neck and started to turn, but he was too slow. Something hit him and knocked the gun from his hand. Before he even had a chance to yell, cold, hard fingers locked around his throat and choked the life from him. Monty had turned at the sound of the falling piece and saw his former customer held off the floor by a sandy-haired man in a ragged, black coat and scuffed blue jeans. Monty raised his gun and warned, "I don't know who the hell you are, buddy, but I'm gonna head out that door over there and anyone who gets between me and it is gonna be sorry."

"You don't know me? Monty, my old friend, I'm crushed." The stranger dropped Carlos' corpse to the pavement and slowly turned. Monty's eyes widened with fear. "M-m-m-maniscalco..." he stammered as his hands began to shake. The undead mobster smiled coolly.

"Yes, Monty. It's me. Now please put the gun away before I have to take it from you."

Slowly, Monty put the safety on and returned the gun to his pocket. "But...how?"

"It worked, that's how," Maniscalco said as he glided over to his old associate. "The police interfered before it was complete, but it worked all the same. I brought Him here and He brought us both back." Monty found himself caught up in his old employer's eyes. They were different from how he remembered. More yellow than brown and there was something wrong with the pupil. It seemed more oval than round. As he fell farther into the mesmerizing stare, the words Maniscalco spoke seemed to burrow into his brain. "We now have what we've desired for ages. A firm foothold in this realm. The material to build an empire."

Monty's blood went ice-cold in his veins as the creature who somehow was and was not his old boss took him by the elbow and steered him to the car. "Come on, old friend. We have a great deal of work to do."


	2. chapter 2

Janine resolutely focused her attention on her computer. Typing up invoices was boring but you had to pay attention because one small mistake could cost the business hundreds of dollars. Dr. Venkman would give her hell for that if it happened.

Of course, it really wasn't helping that he was her major source of distraction today.

_Jeeze, you'd think the guys would take him with them and make him wait in Ecto if only to keep me from going crazy,_ she thought darkly as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs _again_. He was silent this time. You'd think Janine would be grateful for the respite from the endless Venkman monologue. Earlier in the morning he had come down every ten minutes practically to tease her. But, as he became less and less talkative, she became uneasy. Sure, Peter hated to be left behind on busts and had a tendency to pace the floors until he heard from the guys, but this was different. He had a pinched look to his face as his long legs took him down the stairs, to his office, across the garage to stare out the door then back upstairs again.

_I swear, if he doesn't stop soon, I'm gonna slip him a Mickey if only so I can get some work done._

Down the stairs, back to the office...Janine pounded her keyboard with a little more force then necessary. Back from the office, across the garage, open the locker...

Janine stopped cold. That wasn't in the pattern. She looked up to see Peter pulling on a light jacket.

"And just where do you think you're going, Dr. V.?"

Peter startled slightly at her voice, then looked at her over his shoulder. "Out."

"Out where?" the secretary persisted. "You're not in any condition to..."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Melnitz!" Peter snapped. "I'm going out for a walk. I've got to get some air before I go bonkers. I'm sure a little exercise isn't going to pull out the damn stitches."

Before she could say anything else, Peter stomped out the door and slammed it behind him. Janine briefly debated going after him.

_Oh, hell. He's a big boy,_ she thought as she turned back to the invoices. _He can take care of himself. Maybe now I can get this crap done._

* * *

"That's better," Peter muttered to himself as he walked down the sidewalk. Granted, he tended to go a little stir-crazy when the guys went on a 'bust without him, but this was ridiculous.

_Probably just a little reactive claustrophobia since I did get sideswiped by a phantom weed- wacker in a sub-basement,_ he rationalized. _Probably will fade by the time I get the stitches out._

A taxi blared its horn just down the street, causing Venkman to nearly jump out of his skin. "Damn it, Petey. Time to switch to decaf."

He continued on his way, an easy, swinging stride carrying him through Chinatown. He let his vision drift over the colorful people bustling around him, paying just enough attention to keep from running into anyone, but basically just letting the feel of the city wash over him. Relaxing...or at least he usually found it relaxing.

"Damn it."

Peter made it five blocks before he finally admitted to himself it just wasn't working. The slight bit of relief he'd gotten by leaving headquarters was long gone, and it now seemed like the buildings around him were leaning over him, ready to topple and smother him beneath their bricks. Car exhaust filled his sinuses, almost making him choke, and Peter found himself jumping at every sharp sound.

_Come on, Venkman! Pull yourself together,_ he snarled inwardly as he paused at a street corner. _Remember, you're limited to two phobias: bugs and heights. Try to add agoraphobia to the list and you're going in for therapy. And you know how you hate therapy._

But personal threats didn't work either. The stink of cars in the street, various ethnic foods, garbage from the alleyways and sweaty humans brushing by was smothering him. And he felt exposed, vulnerable on the street. He started to turn around to head back to the firehall, but the thought of going _inside_ nearly sent him into a full blown panic attack.

_What the hell is wrong with me? Can't go in, can't stay out. Mind making a decision here, psyche?_

A flash of green and white in the corner of his vision caught his attention. Peter turned to see a flower vendor arranging a fresh bunch of calla lilies in his stand. The sight of the foliage surrounding the flowers being sold seemed to relax Peter by an almost infinitesimal fraction. He felt an overpowering urge to take cover in the green.

_Whoa, buddy. I doubt Mr. Yong will like you taking a break in his petunias._

An idea occurred to him, and Peter stepped out to hail a cab. The yellow car wedged itself into a space by the curb, and Venkman gritted his teeth as he forced himself into the back seat which reeked of tobacco smoke.

"Where to, buddy?" the driver asked.

"Central Park," the psychologist answered, breathing discretely through his mouth.

The cabby snorted as he flipped on the meter. "Care to be a little more specific, Mac? That covers a hell of a lot of territory."

Peter forced himself to keep his breathing even. "Don't matter. The skating rink, and you can skip the scenic route."

* * *

The room was dim, windows curtained against the early afternoon sun. Musty smelling and filled with shadows. And the people within the room seemed little more than shadows themselves. A battle had just ended and the victors held weapons trained on the defeated. In the center, two shadow-men supported a battered form between them. Only an hour ago, this person had practically owned an entire district of the city, but the mighty had fallen and fallen hard.

"What have you to say to my proposal, Mr. Grey?"

Grey raised his head to face the voice. His aristocratic features were now marred by a split lip and a large abrasion on his left cheek. The custom-tailored Armani suit was torn in several places and being further abused by the coarse grip of his captors. But he still retained a few shreds of bravado.

"I think you're off your nut, Maniscalco," he snapped. "Clever of you, faking your death like that. Though cuttin' up your chest was a bit much. But the Family isn't gonna stand for you musclin' in on my territory no matter how nuts you are."

Maniscalco sighed and turned to his lieutenant with an icy smile. "Amazing how people will disbelieve what is right under their noses because it fails to fit with their view of the world."

"It is kinda wild, boss," Monty replied. "If I hadn't been there when it all went down, I'd probably be havin' a hard time with it, too."

"Ah, this doubting world," Maniscalco said with mock sorrow. "Things were so much simpler when people took the existence of spirits as a given. Even now, you have doubts as to who and what I truly am." The former dead man looked around the room at the men ranged around it. "Yes, I suppose a small demonstration is in order or I will need to kill half of Grey's men to cement my control. A frightful waste of resources. Drop him."

The two thugs holding Grey released their grip. The mobster staggered a bit, but managed to keep himself from falling to the floor. Gathering his dignity around him, he straightened his tattered jacket and smirked at Maniscalco as he moved closer.

"My boys aren't that gullible, Viper," he sneered. "If you think some freaky contact lenses and little magic show is gonna get them to follow a loonie with delusions of godhood..."

His voice trailed off as the skin on Maniscalco's face began to ripple and writhe. Poison-green scales bloomed on the man's skin and spread like water. Grey backed away, but found his escape barred by his adversary's men. The men of both factions gasped as Maniscalco's form twisted, clothes shredding, until it was no longer a man standing before them but an unholy mating of human and reptile. The lower body fused in a serpent's tail. The torso was still mostly human in shape, but the powerful chest appeared unbalanced with the scrawny, almost vestigial arms he now possessed. The emerald and jade scales covered every inch of his body save where two pale oval scars marred the shoulder. The head was hairless with enormous, lid-less eyes that stared directly into the soul. A forked tongue flickered through fangs. "Hardly delusssionsss," he hissed. "I wassss not resssurrected but reborn. I am not merely Manissssscalco, your old rival, but I am Sssharissssss, whosssse embrace and kisssss bringsss death. Thosssse who honor me will ssssshare in my power. Thosssse who do not..."

The snake-man moved faster than thought itself. Grey found himself immobilized in the coils of the lithe body. Maniscalco/Sharis caressed his hair with one delicate hand. "Thossse who do not I will devour."

"Y-y-y'know," Grey stuttered in panic. "I've changed my mind. I don't think working for you would be all that bad."

"It'ssss too late for that, Grey," the serpent said reprovingly. "You refusssed to ssserve me in that role, ssso you will ssserve me in another." Maniscalco turned to glance at Monty who was backed against the wall, the blood drained from his face. "Have you doubtsss now, my old friend?"

"Not...anymore," the thug answered haltingly.

"Then prove yourssself to me," the avatar hissed. "Come and ssstrangle this man in my name. Honor me with hisss death so that Sssharisss will know you for hissss own."

Monty gazed at the creature his employer had become, fascinated and revolted. The creature's hypnotic gaze promised many things: power, riches, destruction...death. Part of him screamed for him to flee before it was too late, but the rest of his soul yearned after what he saw. He found himself moving forward with the slow, dreamy steps of a sleepwalker. He distantly noted his victim's screams as he locked his hands around Grey's throat.

"His death is yours...Sharis."

As the man in the coils of the godling finally grew still, Monty felt the tips of a forked tongue brush his forehead. "Well done," the voice whispered.

Grey's body fell to the floor with a thud as the snake-man's form twisted and became a naked human with a large, hastily stitched gash down his chest. The man who was no longer a man reached out and clasped Monty's shoulder. "And you are now mine as well," he said quietly, then turned to face the room and waved away the guards standing over Grey's men. "You can work for me or be sacrificed to me," he said coolly. "I have no preference, but I'm sure you will find my employ much more rewarding."

* * *

"Whew, that's better."

Peter had guessed right. Now that the city was screened from his sight by acres and acres of trees, he was starting to relax. At least he had once he moved upwind from the zoo. Something about the musk and dung scent on the air had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Who'd have thought King of Night-life Venkman would pine for the great outdoors," he muttered to himself as he strolled down the path. "Oh well, whatever works, I guess. As long as I get a handle on whatever it is before my next date."

But, just when he thought he was completely relaxed, Peter jumped as the staccato beat of a jogger's footsteps echoed down the tree lined path. Before he realized what was happening, he found himself quietly darting off to trail and into the bushes where he crouched and watched a pair of yuppies in designer running gear run past.

_Agoraphobic and anti-social today, Petey?_ he thought. _Definitely time for therapy._

He didn't turn back, however. Peter continued deeper into the trees, paralleling the path and moving as quietly as he could. In his childhood, Peter had found great fun in seeing how close he could sneak up on people without them noticing. For the moment, he seemed to slip back to that age, impishly grinning as he crept close enough to knock the hat off the head of an unsuspecting guitarist playing on a bench without either the musician or his audience noticing he was there until he was already gone.

And it was so easy. As Peter slipped away into the green-hued shadows, he found himself wondering if city noises had deafened everyone but him. But that didn't really matter now. What mattered was the challenge of the stalk. He found himself increasing his pace without making the least bit of noise, loping through the trees as smoothly as the wind itself. Blood pounded in his ears as a wild thrill of pleasure sang in his heart. A tumble of boulders blocked his way, but he simply lengthened his stride and bounded from one to another. A damp smell on the air told him a stream was close. Good, he was getting thirsty. Hungry, too. And crouched on the grass at the base of the last boulder was a rabbit, innocently chewing away at the lush cowslips growing there. The prey was upwind and hadn't yet caught sight of him. It would be an easy kill. Peter crouched at the crest of the boulder for the fatal spring and...

_WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!_

The thought jarred him out of the feral reverie. Catching himself mid-lunge, Peter tripped on a crack in the rock and fell, tumbling off the boulder and landing on his back with a thud that knocked the wind out of him as the rabbit darted for the cover of the bushes. Peter lay limp on the grass, gasping to recover the wind which had been knocked out of him.

* * *

Janine glanced up at the sound of the firehouse door opening. "It's about time you got back here, Dr. V.," she said and tapped a stack of books on the corner of her desk with her pencil. "The cops came by with these while you were out. Not that they were happy at letting me sign for them instead of you, but..." Her tirade cut off as Venkman came close enough for her to see him. The normally painstakingly styled hair was tousled with small bits of leaf and grass caught in it. Peter's jeans and jacket were smudged with dirt and grass stained. An angry red scrape decorated the angle of his jaw. Peter caught the look on Janine's face as she took inventory of his condition, and he smiled sheepishly.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Janine," he ventured.

"I should hope not!" she snapped as she came around her desk, worried anger snapping in her eyes. Without further ado, she grabbed him by his stained jacket sleeve and all but frog-marched him up the stairs. "What the hell were you doing?" she demanded as she steered him into the kitchen and fetched the small first aid kit.

"Just went for a run in the park, J," he said defensively as he peeled off the jacket and dropped heavily into a chair. "Missed my footing, that's all."

"I swear, Dr. V. Sometimes I don't think you have the sense God gave a brick," Janine said as she grabbed one of his hands and scowled at the abrasion on the palm. "Lose the shirt. If you've managed to pull out your stitches..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Peter interrupted. "I catch hell from you, then get it in triplicate from the guys. I don't think I've hurt my shoulder, though."

"Pretend I'm from Missouri," Janine demanded, not letting up an inch. "Show me."

Peter quirked an eyebrow at her. "You seem rather anxious to see me without my shirt, Melnitz," he said suggestively. "What would Egon say about this?"

Janine ignored the remark and glanced meaningfully at the rack of kitchen knives on the counter. "Dr. V., unless you want to sacrifice that shirt, you have 10 seconds to remove it before I cut it off. Ten..."

"Okay, okay!" Peter said as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. "There you go, Janine. Happy?"

"Positively thrilled," she replied sarcastically as she pulled the bandage away, ignoring Peter's yelp of pain as she jerked the tape off. "Okay, buddy, you've lucked out. Your 'little tumble', didn't do any more damage."

"Told ya."

"Shut up and hold still."

Janine expertly rebandaged his shoulder, reflecting dismally on what it said about her line of work that she was so good at first aid. Her major concern taken care of, she moved on to the scrapes and bruises Venkman had acquired. She was suspicious that Peter had understated the accident, but didn't find anything to indicate worse damage as she checked him over and got to work cleaning the abrasions.

Not that she'd be caught dead saying anything to puff up her boss's already gargantuan ego, but she had to admit that he _did_ have a handsome physique. The muscles of his chest and arms weren't bulky, but they were very well defined from the work of carrying seventy pounds of equipment and holding a bucking proton thrower on a daily basis.

"Enjoying the view, Melnitz?"

Janine jumped as she realized her fingers had paused in their work of cleaning out the scrapes on Peter's calloused hands. Her eyes flicked up to meet his gaze. It was the same old Peter Venkman who drove her to distraction on a regular basis, but something was different about his eyes. Something primal...sensual. Her pulse suddenly seemed very loud and her breathing quickened. "What if I am?" she responded weakly.

A small smile crept across Peter's lips as he leaned in toward Janine and reached up to gently touch her cheek with his free hand. "Well, I'm enjoying _my_ view," he murmured as he leaned closer and breathed deeply. "And your smell...new perfume? That's not fair, Janine. Give us poor guys a fighting chance."

Perfume? Janine didn't remember putting on any perfume today. But she was profoundly aware of Peter's scent. The salty-musky tang of sweat with the slightest hint of blood from his open scrapes. She felt the warmth in her face as her skin went flush. Her awareness of the world narrowed to the two of them as he pulled his other hand free to wrap it around her waist.

"Janine..." his voice was husky as he drew her closer to him. Fanning her fingers out against his chest, she bent down to him for a kiss...

_SPLOOSH_

The splash of the open bottle of antiseptic as she knocked it over broke the spell. In a fraction of a second, the feral sensuality vanished from Peter's eyes to be replaced by panic. They pushed away from each other almost violently. Peter lunged from his chair to grab the roll of paper towels from the counter and started mopping up the spill with single-minded fervor, swearing as the liquid stung his scraped hands.

"Here, give me that." she said, taking the sodden mass of paper from him. "You get your ass upstairs and clean yourself up the rest of the way. The guys will freak if they see you messed up like that."

Peter looked up and a wordless understanding passed between them. They weren't going to talk about this, not even to each other. And they were going to do their best to forget it ever happened. "Yes, mother," Peter said, managing to cover the slight shakiness in his voice with effort. "I'll be good and wash behind my ears and everything."

Janine gave him a curt nod. "See that you do. And if you start prowling the garage again, I'm gonna nail your feet to the floor. Start going through those books the police brought if you're that hard up for something to do."

Peter didn't even bother with a parting wise-crack. He headed for the stairs as quickly as he could without looking like he was fleeing the scene. As he passed out of sight, Janine paused in cleaning up the mess.

_What the heck just happened here?_ she asked herself in confusion. _I can't be developing a thing for Dr. V... can I?_

* * *

The afternoon was well advanced by the time Ecto-1 pulled into the firehall garage. And, all things considered, Winston was more than happy to see the sun setting. Their scheduled busts had each turned out to be far more complex than expected. That, coupled with the fact that they were a thrower short, had made for a lunch on the fly and, on the whole, a very exhausting day.

"Man, I hope the police were able to get those books to us," Ray said brightly as he unsnapped his seatbelt. "I can't wait to see what's there."

Winston shot his friend in the passenger seat a look of exasperated fondness. The day had been exhausting for _some_ people at least. "Don't get your hopes up, Ray," he said as he levered himself out of the car. "You know how tangled government bureaucracy is. And this is supposed to be police evidence, remember?"

"About time you guys got back," a very familiar, nasal voice commented. Janine had gotten up from her desk and was stalking over on her stiletto heels. "Next time, if Dr. V. isn't bedridden, you take him with you. Or else I'm demanding hazard pay."

Egon quirked an eyebrow as he headed toward the basement with the loaded traps. "I take it Peter was as well behaved as usual?" he asked.

They expected any one of a dozen wise-cracks from their secretary in response to that line. The last thing they expected was silence...a very loud silence. All three men paused in their tasks to look at Janine who had turned slightly away from them.

"Are you sure he didn't hit his head or something yesterday?" she finally asked.

"Pretty sure," Winston confirmed as he quickly hung the last pack in the locker and walked over to her. "What's up? Something wrong with Pete?"

Janine covered it so quickly that Winston almost missed the faint look of embarrassment. "Well, he's been even more stir-crazy than usual today, and..." she started.

A series of thumps echoed down from the upper levels, followed by some rather colorful swear words. Janine pointed at the stairs. "Go up there and see what I mean."

Ray and Egon exchanged a look, then placed the traps on Janine's desk and hurried upstairs. Winston was about to follow but hesitated.

"Janine..." he started to ask, but she turned and went back to her desk with a set to her shoulders that said she did _not_ want to talk about whatever it was.

"Better get up there, Winston," she said. "And you might want to take pictures."

Winston blinked at that cryptic suggestion and made his way upstairs. When he reached the top, the first thing he saw was Egon and Ray standing just outside the doorway to the kitchen. Egon had his PKE meter out and was fiddling with it. Ray was just standing there with his jaw hanging open in shock. From the kitchen itself came a sound of squeaking and thumping. Winston edged his way forward to get a look at what was going on in there...and had to make a conscious effort not to let his own jaw hit the floor.

The refrigerator door was wide open, its contents scattered across the countertop and floor. The smell of Pine-sol hung in the air, and, practically halfway inside the fridge itself, was none other than Peter Venkman, sponge in hand, scrubbing out behind the vegetable bins. After a few seconds, the psychologist became aware of their presence. He stopped mid-scrub and looked over his shoulder.

"Hey, guys," he said. "What'd you do? Take the ghosts out for pizza before you trapped them?"

"Peter?" Ray asked hesitantly as he stepped into the kitchen. "Are you okay?"

Venkman snorted and tossed the sponge to one side as he started placing assorted food items back into the fridge. "If you count having sixty stitches in my shoulder as being 'okay', I'm just hunky dory."

Winston's eyes flicked to Egon who looked up and nodded. "His readings are normal."

"What?!" Peter somehow managed to spin around smoothly in his crouched position. "I try to take care of a biohazard before it kills us all, and you think I'm possessed? I'll remember that next time it's my turn to do the laundry."

"Well, since it takes an act of God to make you clean out that biohazard you call a closet..." Winston said with a smirk.

Peter rolled his eyes and went back to piling food back where it belonged. "My closet has yet to make me nearly pass out from fumes," he said over his shoulder. "The tuna salad from last week went critical. No way I was going to let that contaminate the rest of the food. Show a little gratitude for your appetite's sake."

The former soldier frowned. He hadn't smelled anything off when he'd gotten breakfast that morning, at least nothing bad enough for the decontam Peter was doing. But Winston shrugged it off. The lid must have popped off the offending leftovers after they'd gone. Peter _was_ capable of the occasional responsible act, after all. He exchanged an amused look with Egon and Ray.

"In that case, Dr. Venkman," Egon said dryly as he put away his meter, "we thank you from the bottom of our gastrointestinal tracts. Did the police bring the books from Maniscalco's work room?"

"Yeah. They're up in your lab," Peter answered, replacing the bottles of salad dressing and condiments in the door rack.

"Oh, great! Let's get started," Ray said and bounded out of the kitchen. Egon gave Peter one last measuring look before he followed the engineer at a more sedate pace. Winston shook his head and walked over to the fridge.

"Let me help you there, m'man," he said, handing Peter a jug of orange juice. "I wish I had gotten a camera like Janine suggested. This is a moment that needs to be recorded for posterity."

At the mention of Janine's name, Peter stiffened for a second but quickly recovered. "Well I'll certainly remember that when she asks for a raise," he shot back, but there was a faint flush across his cheekbones. Winston frowned and crouched down beside him. He noticed something he'd missed earlier; the scrape along the angle of Peter's jaw. Janine's discomfort suddenly sprang back to the forefront of Winston's mind.

"Pete..." he said as he reached to tilt Peter's head to get a better look. "Okay, homeboy. Just how did you get this?"

Peter jerked his head away and went back to restocking the fridge with a single-minded intensity. "Took a bad step when I went out today. Was driving myself and Melnitz crazy with all my pacing around. So I went for a run."

"Exercising and cleaning all in one day?" Winston asked. "Maybe I should take your temperature."

Peter stood up and slammed the milk down with a little more force than was necessary. "I'm fine, Zed. Jeeze! I'm really going to remember this next time you guys get on my back about chores!"

"Whoa, Pete," Winston said, backing off a bit. "You don't have to take my head off. Just concerned about you, that's all."

Peter sighed as he placed the last jar of pickles back in its place and closed the refrigerator. "Sorry, 'bout that, Zed," he said quietly as he turned and leaned against the counter. "You know how I am when I'm benched. I've been going stir-crazy all day. But I shouldn't take it out on you." One corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "That's what I keep Slimer around for."

"Don't let Ray hear you say that," Winston cautioned with a chuckle. But his expression sobered and he reached out to clasp Peter's shoulder. "Level with me, Pete. Did something happen today?"

Peter avoided Winston's gaze. "Not much," he said hesitantly. "Only..."

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as the alarm sounded, making the both of them jump.

"Get down here, guys!" Janine's voice rang out from downstairs. "That was Frump! He wants you over at Scorini's Storage pronto!"

Winston and Peter took off for the stairs and thundered down them just as Ray and Egon came sliding down the firepole. "Is it about the Mainiscalco case?" Ray asked as he ran up to her desk and grabbed the paper she held out.

"Can't think of any other reason Frumpy-Dumpty would call us, Tex," Peter said. Winston turned around to see Peter grabbing his jumpsuit from his locker and pulling it on. Egon caught sight of him too as the physicist grabbed his proton pack.

"Peter," he said firmly. "I hardly think it's wise to..."

"Stuff it, Spengs," Peter snapped. "Okay, I won't carry a pack, but I am **not** staying behind this time."

"Come on, Peter," Ray cajoled. "If there's a ghost, you're not up to fighting it."

Peter scowled at his partners and turned to Janine. "How about it, Melnitz? Did he say there was a ghost to bust?"

Janine looked uncomfortable as she said, "Nope. The cops found what looks like a Mob killing and wanted you to check it out."

Peter spun on his heel to face the other Ghostbusters and crossed his arms across his chest. "See, we're just going to investigate, not 'bust. If it gets hairy, I'll be crowd control, but I **am **going this time."

The look in Peter's eyes was so fierce and determined that Winston felt slightly intimidated. He'd never seen Peter like this before. Of course, Peter was probably right. No harm in him riding along if it was just a look-see. And if something was wrong between him and Janine, it would be better to get him out of the firehall anyway. "Okay, Pete," he finally said, joining Egon in loading the proton throwers. "But no pack. Your shoulder isn't up to it yet."

"And you **will** retreat at the first sign of trouble," Egon added darkly.

"Okay, okay," Peter said as he threw himself into the back seat. "Let's go see what the Inspector has for us."

* * *

What Inspector Frump had for them was a dirty, rundown warehouse. Patrol vehicles were stationed around the perimeter, and yellow, crime-scene tape blocked off a small crowd of curious onlookers. Off to one side, a pair of officers were helping the CSI team load a gurney laden with a bagged corpse into the coroner's van.

"We need to get more business with the NYPD," Peter quipped as he waited for the others to pull on their packs. "Frump takes us to such classy places."

"Hey, Ghostbusters!" They turned to see one of the uniformed cops holding up a section of the tape boundary. "The Inspector's in the main office. And he's not in a waiting mood."

"I don't think he's ever in a waiting mood," Winston muttered as he stooped under the tape. "How bad is it?"

The cop shrugged. "Seen worse. Lots of property damage but only five stiffs. No civilians in the crossfire, thank God."

"I'll second that," Peter said fervently as the team followed the officer to the entrance to the warehouse.

"Follow me, and I'll hopefully keep you out of the Crime Lab's way," the policeman continued. "So, I guess your being here means the rumors are true. We've got a zombie gangster on the loose."

"Well, that_ is_ what it's looking like," Ray said as they stepped inside. He turned to Egon who, as usual, was paying more attention to the meter than to where he was walking. Ray grabbed the physicist's elbow to steer him away from a piece of broken crate. "What have we got, Egon?"

Egon frowned and looked up from the read-out. "Class Seven residuals, Ray. Identical to the ones in the morgue."

"There's your answer," Peter said as he looked around at the smashed crates and bullet-riddled walls. "I take it dead-boy is getting back into the mobster business."

The officer looked distinctly uncomfortable. "That's really for Frump to tell you, but, off the record, yeah."

Peter nodded grimly and kept looking around as they continued toward the offices at the back. The CSI team appeared to be wrapping up their work, and the area certainly seemed secure with all the armed officers about, but something was making him nervous. He found himself constantly checking the shadows, almost as if he was expecting an ambush. Peter scowled as he tried to shake himself out of his paranoia. Something about this place had him on edge. It also smelled funny. A dry, musty smell that was making him more and more irritable with every second.

"About time you guys got here," a surly voice called out ahead of them. Frump was leaning against a doorway in the back wall. "Ah, Venkman. So those papercuts didn't kill you after all. Pity."

Peter felt his hackles rise at the taunt, but managed to keep his voice light as he shot back. "Neither rain, nor sleet, nor mortal injury keeps this Ghostbuster from his rounds. What's up, Frump?"

The detective slipped back into the office, and the Ghostbusters followed. "What's up is we've got a gang-war about to break loose," he said sourly. In the middle of the ransacked room, a pair of investigators were pulling the zipper closed on another dead body. "That over there is the late Joseph Grey. He's been under investigation for some time for racketeering, extortion and drug- running, but we haven't got enough evidence to pin him."

"Connected to Maniscalco?" Winston asked.

"In a way," Frump replied. "Word on the street says that they were rivals just before Viper bought it. And I'd think Grey probably took over many of his interests afterward. Figures that he'd be the first up on Maniscalco's hit list." The detective leaned against an overturned desk and scowled. "And looks like he made it pretty personal, too. The other four stiffs we're hauling out of here died of gunshot wounds. From the coroner's preliminary report, Grey was strangled. Thought you guys might want to have a look at the place. Do whatever voodoo it is you do."

"We very much appreciate it, Inspector," Egon said as he started going over the room with his meter. "However, it might be more profitable for you to call us in before the scene is so altered by the crime lab team."

Frump snorted. "I'll get you copies of the photos and everything, but there's a little bit of department politics going on here. CSI will pitch a fit if I let you in before them, and I'm not paid enough to do your PR." Frump stood up and lumbered toward the door as the last of the investigators left. "I've gotta get a start on the paperwork here. If you guys don't come up with something quick, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Sheesh!" Ray said as the Ghostbusters were left by themselves. "We've only been on the case 24 hours. What does he expect?"

"Just instant service and the world on a platter," Peter all but growled. The maddening musty smell was even stronger in this room. Peter found himself fighting down an inexplicable anger and frustration.

"Don't let it bother you, guys," Winston said soothingly. "It's not like he wanted to call us in the first place. Let's see what we've got."

* * *

It was not entirely unexpected to find no physical evidence of occult dealings in their search. Just broken furniture, spent shell casings and scattered papers, but this was the lair of Maniscalco's rival, not Maniscalco himself. However, Egon was finding the new mix of PKE readings informative.

"Anything new, Egon?" Peter called out irritably. "If there isn't, let's get out of here. This place stinks."

Egon glanced up from the meter and shot his friend a puzzled look. Granted, there was a faint odor of blood and gunpowder in the air, but nowhere near enough to be overwhelming. "I'm not smelling anything out of the ordinary, Peter."

"Then thank your lucky stars," Peter snapped. "Is it the Seven? Can we go home now?"

The physicist turned to Ray and then to Winston who simply shrugged and rolled his eyes. "It is the Seven," Egon confirmed as he turned back to Peter. "However, there are some weaker readings. Not surprising given the violent deaths which occurred in this place. It is highly probable that we will be called back to this building in the future to deal with a haunting." The PKE meter's beeping increased in pitch, drawing his attention back to the screen. "Then again, the presence of the Seven may be accelerating matters. Peter, I suggest you step outside. I believe we have a Class Three about to manifest."

Ray and Winston pulled their throwers and moved up to a defensive position. Egon also unholstered his weapon but held it one handed as he continued to monitor the increasing readings. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Peter had complied...and groaned inwardly to see that the psychologist had not. "Peter!" he snapped. "Get out of here. Now!" Peter turned to meet Egon's eyes with a look on his face that could only be described as predatory. The effect was enhanced as his lips curled away from his teeth in a snarl and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Ray and Winston heard it and turned with bewildered stares to look at their friend.

"Pete?" Winston asked softly. "What's going on?"

Egon fumbled with the controls on his meter and aimed it at Peter. His eyes widened behind his glasses at the readings. "Similar to the residuals from where he was attacked," he said, fear turning his voice brittle. "But much stronger and increasing in intensity." He spun the setting on his thrower to a lower level, one that would stun but not harm a human being. "Peter," he said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Can you hear me? Talk to us."

But Peter's attention was focused behind his teammates where a faint glow had appeared heralding the ghost's manifestation. Winston moved to his left while Ray and Egon moved right in an attempt to keep a watchful eye on both of them. Peter ignored all of this. His eyes remained locked on the manifesting spirit as he bent down into a crouch, every muscle in his body taut with repressed energy. Ray turned to Egon in bewilderment. "Is it possession?" he asked. "Can you get a clear enough reading for us to pull them apart with the throwers?"

Egon shook his head as he looked over the readings. "It's not possession...at least not like we know it." he said. "The psychokinetic readings are extremely close to Peter's own biorhythms. Almost as if they were accommodating themselves to Peter's frequency."

"How is that possible?" Ray asked. "Possessions always overpower the victim's own rhythms, they don't harmonize with them."

"I don't know, Raymond," Egon said tightly. "I..."

With a shriek, the ghost manifested. It seemed very likely that it was the spirit of the murdered mobster. It "wore" a stylish suit, but it's face was twisted into an obscene parody of humanity. Winston brought his thrower up to fire on it, hoping to get it contained quickly so that they could deal with Peter.

Peter didn't give them the chance.

With a savage roar, the psychologist lunged across the room. In the split second it took for him to cross it, his form warped. In the adrenaline rush, time seemed to stretch, and Egon watched in horror as midnight black fur spread across Peter's skin. His long fingers dwindled into massive paws tipped with claws like meat-hooks. The Ghostbuster had started his attack on two legs, but, on the second bound, had dropped to four as bone and flesh shifted into a new configuration. Peter fell upon the ghost and, in defiance of all they knew of spirits, ripped its throat out with massive, fanged jaws. The spirit let out one last strangled scream and dispersed into the air.

"My God!" Ray murmured. "Did he just kill a ghost? That's not possible."

Automatically, Egon checked his meter which showed complete dispersal of the Class Three. Apparently it was possible given the evidence at hand. Silence fell as the three men stared in fear and confusion. In place of their friend stood a huge cat, midnight black and draped in the shredded remains of Peter's uniform. The beast turned to face them, and they saw that, no, it wasn't completely black. On its chest were three streaks of bone-white hair exactly where the cuts across Peter's chest had been. The cat regarded them with luminous green eyes and growled a warning. The remaining Ghostbusters exchanged looks of silent communication. Ray and Winston turned the settings on their throwers to stun level.

"Peter," Egon said once again. "If you can hear us, we're going to help you. Don't fight us. Please."

Peter responded with a defiant snarl, but, just as suddenly, a look of confusion came into the luminous, green eyes. Confusion and panic. Without warning, the transformed Ghostbuster sprang...not for any of the men, but for the door. Winston fired, but the cat was too fast. The beam scorched the floor just behind him as Peter raced out into the warehouse proper.

"Peter! No!" Ray shouted as they ran after him. The rest of the warehouse was empty. Ray and Winston broke off to either side while Egon tried to pick up Peter's location with the meter. Suddenly he looked up and pointed at a stack of crates which reached to almost the top of the wall.

"Up there!" he yelled where a shadowy form was kicking free of the last bit of clothing. It leaped for the nearby overhead walkway. From there, it was only a short bound to one of the open windows located just under the ceiling and the fire escape outside.

"Quick! We're gonna lose him!" Winston yelled as they ran for the outside door. The few remaining policemen looked up in surprise as the three men came charging into their midst and ran for the alley. But, by the time they reached it, Peter was already long gone.

"Wow, he's fast," Ray said, panting slightly. "Can you still track him, Egon?"

"Maybe," the physicist said as they turned around and sprinted for Ecto-1. "But we'd better hurry. If he gets much farther ahead, I'll lose the signal."

* * *

Janine sat at her desk, studiously working on the last few invoices for the day, and tried not to worry about her bosses. Dusk had fallen outside, she had expected them to be back long before now. A simple investigation shouldn't have taken this long, and if they'd been delayed, they should have called her. Well, to be honest, they'd been delayed without calling her before, but she preferred to worry over their absence than think about events earlier in the day.

That incident still had her confused. Never in her life had she felt such overwhelming lust...not even with Egon. Janine had no doubt that if that bottle hadn't spilled and distracted them, Peter would have taken her right there on the linoleum, and she would have _let_ him. Frustrated and angry, she slammed her file down on the desk and got up to fetch a cup of coffee. To put it lightly, she was pissed off at life, the universe and herself. For years she'd been trying to get past first base with the physicist of her dreams, and today she had found herself moments away from doing the Wild Thing with Peter Venkman, a man who had her affection but for whom she had _no_ sexual desire.

_Or do I_, she wondered as she settled back in her chair with her coffee. _I'm obviously nowhere fast with Egon. Maybe I'm trying to tell myself something. Nahhh, impossible. Dr. V. and me? We'd kill each other before the week was out._

She resolutely ignored the nagging memory of her cousin Judy. The fights she'd had with her brother's best friend came just short of drawing blood. Then last year they wound up engaged.

"Janiiiiiineee!"

The redhead had barely enough time to turn around before Slimer came arrowing through the ceiling and grabbed her in an icy hug. "Silmer! Leggo of me. Yuck!"

The ghost let her dislodge him but then dove for her desk drawer. "Save Slimer!" he whined.

Janine frowned. "What are you talking about?" she demanded.

Slimer stretched his body so that his head poked out of the drawer. "Mean kitty! Big mean kitty!"

"Oh, for the love of..." Janine grabbed some tissue paper from the box on her desk and started to wipe the ectoplasm splatters from her face. "What did we tell you about teasing alley cats?"

Slimer shook his head violently. "Nononono! **BIG** mean kitty! On roof!"

Janine jumped as a series of loud bangs echoed from upstairs. "Okay, I get the point," she said as she raced to the lockers and grabbed a proton pack. "Really big mean kitty. Stay put, Slimer."

The secretary quickly but cautiously made her way up the stairs. Just as she reached the second level, there was a resounding crash. The door to the roof, she supposed. She froze in place at the sound of heavy but muffled footsteps on the stairs above her and aimed her thrower at the spiral stairs to the third level. But nothing appeared at the opening. The footsteps went off to the left, the direction of Egon's lab. Janine slowly, quietly made her way to the next set of stairs and climbed them. As she reached the top, another smaller crash came from the lab. She crept down the hall to the half-open door concentrating on stepping lightly so the floorboards wouldn't squeak. When Janine peered through the door, she saw that one of the drawers had been yanked completely out of the workbench. Its contents were scattered on the floor and crouching over them was...

"Damn big tom cat," Janine murmured and brought her thrower up to aim at the intruder. It was as big as the jaguar she'd seen in the zoo with the same pitch black coat, but it was missing the faint rosettes in its fur that the caged feline had sported. And it was most definitely male. The cat didn't seem to notice her at all. He just stood there, panting with his head hanging down as if he had run a race. She was debating whether or not to just stun the creature right now or barricade him inside the lab when he threw back his head and screamed. The cry chilled her blood and almost made her shoot right then and there, but the cat's form started to blur and shift. The black pelt vanished, and the twitching tail dwindled away. His limbs twisted and stretched and Janine heard a faint popping sound that made her imagine joints painfully dislocating and snapping back of their own volition. The screams deepened in pitch as the monster feline was replaced with a naked man, then cut off abruptly as he collapsed on the floor.

Janine's eyes narrowed, and she kicked the door the rest of the way open. "Okay, buddy, you've got five seconds to tell me who the hell you are and what you're doing here."

As she advanced the intruder turned just enough for her to see his face. "My God!" she breathed. "Dr. V.?"

Peter didn't answer, he snatched an object from the jumbled pile in front of him and rolled underneath the bench.

"Stay back, Melnitz," he ordered in a raspy voice.

"Like hell!" she snapped and ran over to the table just in time to hear a strange _shok_ noise. She looked underneath to see Peter lying on his back holding a bulky pistol. She recognized it now. A tranquilizer dart gun, acquired by channels of dubious legality, which was kept in the lab as a precaution. After all, given all the possessions they'd had to deal with in the staff alone, they needed a means to quickly and harmlessly subdue a person. Peter gave Janine an exhausted but rueful smile and handed the gun to her.

"There you go, Janine. That should take care of me."

Janine looked down at the tufted dart sticking into Peter's thigh. With a gasp, she wrenched it from his flesh. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she all but shouted.

Peter rolled on his side and started to crawl out from under the bench. "Gotta keep you and the guys safe from me. But don't take any chances. Once I'm out, tie me up."

"You don't pay me anywhere near enough for that," Janine shot back, reaching out to steady Peter as he staggered. Looking around quickly, she spotted a sheet covering some equipment and snatched it off to wrap around the psychologist. "Answers, Dr. V. Now. What happened and where are the guys?"

Peter's eyes were beginning to glaze over as she steered him to the couch. "The guys...should be along soon. Had to get away from them. Was so close to 't risk losing control. Good thing I'm fast on four legs...scared the snot out of the Spud." He shook himself slightly as he let himself collapse onto the battered upholstery and gave Janine a level look. With a shudder she saw his eyes were not even remotely human. Cat's eyes, green with slit pupils and hardly any white to be seen. "Don't take any chances, Janine," he said, his words beginning to slur. "Make sure you're safe...the guys are safe..."

With that, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped down unconscious. Janine stood over him in shock for a moment, then pulled herself together to make sure he wasn't hurt before calling the other Ghostbusters. The first thing she checked was his shoulder. Sure enough, every one of the stitches was broken, but it didn't really seem to matter at this point. The three slashes had somehow healed, leaving three milk-white scars in their place.


End file.
